King of my castle
by jhalya
Summary: She's making examples of him. Rukia on a lonely night. Companion piece to "Broken Worlds"


**A/N: What is this? Another IchiRuki piece? What is this madness? Apparently, I felt that Broken Worlds wasn't quite finished yet. Well, it's run its course now. Enjoy!**

**WARNING: Byakuya is still gone, Ichigo is still overhyped and Rukia nails the M in Mature.**

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**King of my castle**

Night time is the quiet time in Seireitei, but the hours seem hollow without Ichigo by her side. Rukia drinks her tea dutifully as if performing a calming ritual of centering one's restless energies would hasten Ichigo's return to her. She's selfish, she knows, but she wonders if the late Captain Commander had been as active in his youth. Ichigo's wild days have settled into a steady pattern of battles, squabbles, the occasional Hollow hunt and endless rounds that cover all of Soul Society, because Kurosaki Sou-taichou is freakin' meticulous like that.

Byakuya's death hit him hard. The battles that followed hit him even harder. He was a revelation to Soul Society, but Ichigo did not want to take the time to have those revelations sink in within himself. She suspected his inner world was crowded enough as it were. He married her instead. He didn't ask. He just said "I need you" and then there she was, sipping sake from the cup she shared with the boy – _man_ – who owned her soul and commanded her body.

That night, after all the guests had retired to party and drink elsewhere – namely, the Eighth's barracks, because Kyoraku taichou was less prickly and more adept at drinking than Hitsugaya taichou and because, more importantly, his stiff Vice-Captain had been reduced to a sniffling puddle of cuteness on account of the very lovely wedding ceremony and was less likely to notice the damage that would inevitably follow the drunken binge Matsumoto insisted on calling an after-party – and the only light shining in the mansion they now shared was in their bedroom, Ichigo had told her in no uncertain terms that "I can do this. The fixing, the mending, the _ruling_. I can do the fighting and the ordering until I have a beard twice as long as the Old Man's. I can do all of it as long as I have you by my side. Better yet", his eyes shone with curt determination, "if I have you waiting for me safe and sound at the end of every day for as long as we have left to live."

Rukia had promised herself that she wouldn't fight him on their wedding night. Ichigo's protectiveness had an ugly head that kept rearing at the worst of times and now he was powerful and confident enough not to be shamed by her rebuttals. Ichigo was a good man, hot-tempered and reckless, yes, but passionate about the things that were dear to him: his family, his sisters, his friends. Her. But the constant warring that had plagued the first – and early - adult years of his life had hardened his heart in ways she had not thought possible. Despair did not come easily to him anymore, but a tendril of coldness had crept into the bright, warm boy she had met years ago. Now, he truly was the Black Sun – hot around the edges, dark and frightening at its core. A sun fit for a moonless sky.

Their wedding night, however, had a big, plump moon shinning over deep indigo skies and Ichigo's body had been warm and pliant and forgetful under her hands. She'd been the wild one that time.

Unfortunately, he turned out to be right. She couldn't always go with him on his errands, not while balancing her duties as Vice-Captain and Head of the Kuchiki clan. And when he was in Seireitei, holding court behind the oaken doors of the First, she was his subordinate and not his wife. Her pride wouldn't allow for less and Ichigo eyes were different when he donned the white coat with the symbols of his Squad on his back. They changed a man, those symbols of power. She knew it too. Her badge and sleeves had been hard enough to get used to in their own time, now the white scarf and the kenseikan seem to burden her down even more. The kenseikan are a permanent fixture to her hair mainly because Ichigo liked them on their wedding day. "You look like a princess" he'd told her, honestly, innocently and for a moment, Rukia had been talking to the blushing, boyish, snarkish Ichigo of old. "They look better on you than they ever did on your brother." He never says his name, but his eyes were smiling then. The scarf, however, is neatly folded in her chest of drawers. "Bankai first. Captaincy next. And maybe, then, the scarf", she'd said. Ichigo had kissed her soundly on the lips and her tears were forgotten.

Duty was a harsh mistress, Rukia had discovered, and a demanding one to boot. She shared her husband with her more often than not. But as long as her bed was never really cold and her soul was whole, Rukia learned to deal with it. And Ichigo, though a man of many passions, bestowed most on her.

She'd never been one to dwell long on male beauty. Her brother had been perfect in her eyes, but she adored him. She'd been surprised to hear fellow shinigami of the female persuasion call Renji attractive, but, then again, he was her friend and had never really looked at him that way. Kaien-dono had been the first to stir within her some sort of feelings that Rukia had been quick to dismiss, but he was the magnet they were all attracted to. Ichigo hadn't ranked higher than that when they had first met despite his conspicuous orange hair. By then, Renji had had tattoos, for Kami's sake, so she'd been used to such types of exoticisms. Nevertheless, Rukia is fond of remembering the lanky, scowling boy who didn't seem to fit anywhere until she drove her sword through his heart and changed him forever. He was still lanky and even more scowling after, but the sword had given him wide, strong shoulders and a body honed for battle. She would glimpse it, back in those days, when she'd heal his scars and harangue him about his foolishness. She'd been proud then of his warrior's stamina, but the woman in her, however meek and quiet she'd seem to be, was not entirely dead. And even though Ichigo was otherwise oblivious, she didn't miss the glances girls kept shooting him in school. But, Rukia now would sheepishly amend, she'd been pretty oblivious back then too.

Not anymore. Ichigo is a man now, a tall, dark shinigami, with wants and needs as befit a man of his stature. He is no slob between the sheets, or out of them. There is lust in him that cannot be quenched solely by battle and though cautious at first, Ichigo has learned to feed that need off her body, her mind and her soul. She knows her duties as his wife well, but if ever there was a duty she'd be more willing to fulfill, it was this: to warm his bed and cradle his body within hers and bear him children worthy of his name. One day.

The night time winds of Seireitei bring a chill to her body. She's lost her taste for tea and her spirits are running low. She wants Ichigo back already. Her wishes have grown petulant of late, but Rukia cannot check herself. She knows her own moods well. The tides in her soul will not abate under the sway of a meandering moon. She needs the steady pull of her sun to set her world straight. Right now, Rukia feels like a kingless castle – barren and cold. That's why she's thinking so much about Ichigo tonight – it frees her from the clutches of longing. He will return to her. He's too stubborn not to.

Just as he is too stubborn to realize that the Kuchiki gardens are not his personal shunpo playground. He has yet to learn how to use the front door.

"Why must you always sneak in? This is your own house." Rukia chides the shadow that is Ichigo come home.

Her husband rubs the back of his neck and scratches his head thoughtfully. Trully, some things never change.

"I really can't be bothered with all the _Welcome home, Kurosaki-Sou-Taichou-sama!_"

His golden eyes twinkle merrily despite the bored tones he smuggles into his voice. She used to think his eyes were warm honey amber, but their colour has cleared since the last war. She had Urahara explain it to her, but the contrary man just smiled behind his irritating fan and pointed out that "Kurosaki-san changes all the time, does he not?" Rukia finds she likes them better now than she did in the past. They turn molten when they're ridden with desire.

"How about a _Welcome home, husband-san! _ Can you deal with that?"

Ichigo smirks and wraps his arms around her middle. The porch is quite high, but still not enough of a stretch for his long limbs. His chin rests on one folded knee.

"That'd be nice. But still a bit too formal." He nuzzles her yukata away and takes a lick and a bite of her rather bony knee cap.

"_Kurosaki-kun, my love, you have come to me at last!_" Rukia declares in her phony actress voice. To his chuckling head, she whispers lewdly "_I can scarce contain my happiness. Please, ravage me completely. It's been so long, I ache for you in parts best left unspoken._"

Ichigo is laughing in earnest now, his hands gliding over her back almost questioningly.

"I've always been afraid to ask, but where, gods, where did you learn to talk like that? I'd have thought the hours of TV education I invested in you taught you at least that much. No one talks like that."

"They do in manga."

"No, they don't."

"They did in the manga I read."

"Sometimes, I question your good taste."

"Should've answered that question when I agreed to marry you."

"What can I say, you compensate well."

She can see herself smiling in his eyes, he's that close, so she kisses him long, and deep and hard, but the angle is taxing and they laugh at their silliness. Thankfully, Ichigo is both fast and nimble and somehow manages to spirit their tangled bodies into their bedroom.

_Tadaima_ he whispers when they break for air. She calls back _Okaeri_ and goes for another kiss. Wildly too, drawing a bit of blood. It's not talking that she wants from him now. He has the audacity to laugh, tilting his head back where she can't reach it. Ichigo pulls back on his haunches and smirks a little longer at the picture of a disheveled Rukia before him. She's frowning, never a good sign, but his lip kind of stings and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth is raising a storm in his loins. She's still so fragile, his wife is. Most of the times, he needs to reign in his power around her. Rukia is strong and likes to think she can handle anything, but she's never really been there when he was at his worst, when the darkness that pooled inside him spilled over the edges of his soul, leaving either a whole where his heart should have been or nothingness where a patch of world used to be. He hasn't made Captain Commander because he won battles, but because of _how_ he won those wretched battles. In war, he likes to rush in for the kill, as the hollow would say. In bed, he lets Rukia come to him instead.

Which she does, shamelessly straddling him and winding her hands in his hair. Her yukata has loosened, barring a perfectly edible breast to the night time air. His hand swallows it whole and her nipple hardens against his palm, a much more potent welcome than any words she could use. The heat between her legs steers him languidly to the only home that matters now and when he's all in and she ripples above him like some otherworldly sea goddess, sweet and slow at the beginning, then faster and faster, the waves of her ever increasing pleasure lapping against him without relent, it's as if he can invade ever crevice of her soul. She strains for release, but Ichigo doesn't offer it lightly. Her breasts pay the price, as Ichigo lavishes them with lips and tongue and teeth. One hand curves around her back, guiding her movements to his liking, the other slithers between them, to where they are joined, to where she is wetter than a raging storm and rubs the hard bundle of nerves there until Rukia breaks into moans and screams and pleas. He is the rock she is rhythmically crashing against and even with him inside her, drumming a steady beat against her core, hard and long and overwhelming, she cannot break him. She chants his name and bites into his shoulders with her nails, seeking leverage, seeking to go higher, but every time she rises, he withdraws and she feels empty, so terribly parched and empty, until he slides back in, bigger and stronger than before, their lovemaking wet and sonorous once more.

But he will groan out her name soon and when he does the darkness in the room explodes in blinding flashes of white and she screams. He rides the tidal waves of her release and the pleasure shatters her before she has time to pull herself together again. And again. And again. Fire, liquid and dark, spills from him and surges through her veins, an avalanche of power that threatens to burst her chest open and she howls her pleasure one last time into the night.

At last, she welcomes Ichigo's heaviness on top of her, his body slick with sweat and the scent of the two of them together. She enjoys the feel of him still inside of her, so she doesn't let go just yet. She knows it's a long time till dawn and he has missed her.

She also knows that if her soul is a castle, then Ichigo is the king that breathes life into it.

And if need be, Rukia will bar the doors and shut the windows so life never flees again.

She kind of likes its heavenly rush.

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**PLAYLIST:**

**Wamdue Project – King of my castle**

**Florence and the Machine – Breath of life**

**A/N 2: I'd like to take this opportunity to thank all the guests who have left a kind review to Broken Worlds and all those who faved and followed it and its author: Thank you, you guys are made of awesome!**


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